


Anne and Gilbert Offscreen

by nianibbles



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Anne and Gilbert, Canada, F/M, Fill-in-the-Blank, Forehead Touching, Romance, Teen Romance, Touching, Tragedy, Tragical Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, offscreen, red hair, redhead, romantical, tragical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 11:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18716011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nianibbles/pseuds/nianibbles
Summary: A series of imagined "deleted scenes" furthering Anne and Gilbert's relationship from the moment they meet.





	1. It's bruised, but it will still taste sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the slate incident.

She hates him.

It’s inexplicable, but she does. The glimpse of hope he felt when she apologized for being rude and introduced herself has been thoroughly extinguished.

He can’t watch anybody be abused by Mr. Phillips on his behalf, but somehow it’s even worse when it’s this new, cute girl. Anne.

“It’s my fault sir. I . . .um, I” what exactly did he do to upset her so much? He was trying to get her attention, “I teased her.”

“Quiet, Blythe. That is hardly an excuse.”

Glued to his place by Mr. Phillips’s stern glare. Gilbert can think of nothing else to do or say, so he sits.

Anne, however, isn’t wavering. She lurches forward.

Her eyes seem even bluer than when he first saw them a few hours ago. Do girls’ eyes usually change color with their emotions? Her eyes seemed the color of a rain cloud when he found her the object of Billy’s rage. Then, they were the color of the sky the day after rain when she read aloud. Now, they are the same deep azure of the ocean, framed by fiery red lashes that match her hair. And her temper.

And before he knows it, she’s gone, He turns in his chair to look out the door. Then, he glares back at Mr. Phillips. Anne has slain her own dragon. Is Mr. Phillips the dragon? Or is Gilbert himself her dragon?

He can’t stand that he doesn’t know why she hates him. Certainly, she can hate him all she likes, but he must know why. And if Anne doesn’t wither under Mr. Phillips’s glare, why should he?

He rises from his chair. He doesn’t feel as though he’s moving of his own accord, instead, that this new, strange girl is pulling him on. After bending to scoop the apple from beneath Anne’s desk, he runs out the open door after her.

Anne is fast. It was hard to keep up with her this morning on the way to school. And she bolted pretty well when he tried to offer her the apple the first time, too. Maybe he’s just an idiot, continuing to follow her. Still, he runs hard to overtake her.

Not far from where he first saw her with Billy, he finally catches up.

“Anne!”

She rounds on him. “You are a mean and hateful boy, Gilbert Blythe! Why on earth would you follow me? Why do you want to make my day even worse?”

He clenches his jaw to keep from pointing out that most people in their class think he’s a nice a friendly young man. After a deep breath, he asks, “We only met today. What have I done that is so mean and hateful?”

“I can’t believe you followed me. Did anyone see you?”

“See me?” He pants, “I suppose only all the same people who saw you leave school,” Gilbert leans over, hands on his knees, chest burning. Why isn’t Anne exhausted from running so far?

“Now I am sure to be destined for painful, solitary loneliness all my days with no bosom friends to be my companions.”

“What?” His mouth is threatening to grin at her use of big words. He shouldn’t be surprised that she speaks with such passion. Just like her reading of the poem.

“They don’t want me to talk to you!” she stomps, crunching the leaves beneath her feet.

“Who? The Cuthberts?” He hazards a step closer.

“I shall never go back to that dreadfully awful place!” she spins away from him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you. But everyone gets scolded by Mr. Phillips . . .”

“Diana told me that you were the only boy who isn’t ridiculous, but it seems to me that you are the very bane of my existence.”

It feels like his ribs are dissolving. “You really hate me. Why?”

“You called me carrots.”

“You have red hair.”

She whirls around to rage at him, “How dare you, in this my most desperate hour, point out the horrid color of my hair, red hair is the bane of my existence!”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “I thought I was the bane of your existence.”

“I suppose my life is such a graveyard of buried hopes that I have multiple banes of my existence.”

He moves close enough that he can lower his voice when he talks to her. “Good to know I have competition. I like a challenge.”

“Leave me alone, Gilbert Blythe,” she spits.

“First tell my why you’re not supposed to talk to me. Though, I may point out you’ve talked plenty just now.”

“It’s a secret.”

Another reason to lower his voice and move closer. “I can keep a secret. Especially if it’s from you.”

“I keep making mistakes with the girls at school. When they saw me walking with you this morning, they reprimanded me.”

Blythe remembers the ribbing some of the boys gave him for walking with the orphan.

“Well, if you don’t care to walk with me, don’t. But if you do,” he begins.

“One of the girls, I shan’t tell you who, has a crush on you. I deeply hurt her tender heart when she saw me walking with you this morning.”

“So, you’re trying to be a good friend,” he nods.

“But she’ll never forgive me now that she’s seen you give me an apple and chase after me,” she moans, “You need to go back right now.”

“I daresay the damage is done, Anne. No point in sending me away.”

She huffs.

“Unless you want to.”

“I--” she pauses. A buzzing starts in his feet and moves up through his body as he feels the possibility of her wanting him to stay.

“You read that poem really well today,” he says.

“Haha, very funny.” She rolls her eyes.

“I mean it. I liked it.”

Folding her arms, she frowns at him

“I gather you like poetry," he prompts.

Kicking at the ground, she seems to answer against her will, “To write a poem is one of my highest ideals of earthly bliss.”

“Earthly bliss,” he chuckles.

With clenched fists and her nose in the air, she starts to turn away again.

“Before you decide if you want me to leave you alone, I just want to say . . . to ask, I mean. Do you like these woods?”

“Yes? Why? Are you going to suggest that orphan trash like me should live outdoors permanently?”

“Of course not. I’m not much more creative than ‘carrots’ with my teasing.” Those sky-colored eyes are glaring at him, so he hastens on, “Do you think the woods are, uh, beautiful?”

She takes a deep inhale as she turns away from him, spreading her arms as if embracing the trees.

“Avonlea is one of the most lovely places on earth. And I would know, having traveled a fair deal. It makes one worldly. These woods are like a legion of glorious queens whose hair changes color through the year.”

Perfect. “And what color is their hair now?”

“It sparkles like fire,” she sighs.

“It’s very becoming. And it’s red,” he reaches for her braid again, this time tugging ever so gently. “Your hair is quite like these leaves,” he whispers in her ear, “Any time I look at you, I will believe it’s October.”

He hands her the apple. It’s bruised, but it will still taste sweet. She looks at it in her hand, seeming confused. He wraps his hand around hers to gently close her fingers over the fruit.

From beneath her rosy eyelashes, she looks up at him, her eyes like two ponds he could dive into on a hot summer day.

“I’m eternally grateful to live in a world where there are Octobers,” she whispers.

He wants to stay. He wants to listen to her use ever so many big words. And he wants to see if she’ll let him steal a kiss. But, this is the friendliest she’s ever likely to let him get. He wrenches himself away to go back to school before she can run away from him again.


	2. I'm Never A Coward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne delivering lessons to Gilbert for the second day.

Anne approaches the Blythe home with even more trepidation than yesterday. She doesn’t know what to do when she reaches the door? Knock? What if she gets poor Mr. Blythe out of bed again to answer the door? How can she be sure Gilbert is home? 

Maybe she should just leave the books on the porch. Then she won’t disturb Mr. Blythe. And then she won’t have to see Gilbert face-to-face at all. But, no, she can’t do that. With snow falling every day, she doesn’t want the books to get damaged. She will just have to see him in person to deliver the books.

She scans her eyes all along his property, looking for a glimpse of Gilbert outdoors somewhere. Not seeing him, but still unsure that he’s in the house, she hesitates instead of knocking. 

The novel she’s been reading is still under her arm. She’ll just have to wait for either Gilbert to come home from or head out to a chore. She sits on the porch step, plopping both hers and Gilbert’s books on her lap, and opening her novel.

After spending the first few pages flitting her eyes up to see if Gilbert has approached, she becomes so engrossed that she doesn’t notice time passing. A scraping behind her brings her back to the world.

“Hello?” Gilbert’s voice. She turns to look up at him. “Anne?” He says.

“I have your lessons,” her voice is hoarse in the winter air.

“Your lips are blue!” He reaches for her arm to hasten her inside the house. The books tumble from her lap, and they both begin apologizing and bending to scoop them up. And then, Anne is back on her seat, her head throbbing. She sees Gilbert rubbing his hairline.

“Bonk,” he chuckles. He scoops up all the books and starts inside, “Aren’t you coming?”

Brushing snow off her rear, Anne says, “It’s not necessary. I’m just dropping off your lessons.’

“Don’t you need yours, too? Because I’m bringing all these books into the warm kitchen for tea before they take the trek to the Cuthberts.”

“I n-n-need to be going,” she shivers.

“Anne, you look like you have hypothermia. I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t offer you a seat by the fire and some tea.”

“Offer away,” she folds her arms.

“You must have fortification,” he pleads. And this is what undoes her resolve, the begging in his tone. When she nods her relent, he walks backwards into the house, keeping his eyes on her as she crosses the threshold. He uses his back to shut the door behind her, his arms still full of books.

“I’d hate to disturb your father.”

The corner of Gilbert’s mouth perks up, not that Anne notices. “With as much as he’s talked about you since yesterday, I doubt your presence would disturb him.”

She remembers that Mr. Blythe had complimented her hair, the only person to ever have done so. This memory, combined with the news that he was talking about her with Gilbert makes warmth rise to her cheeks. Her eyes lift to meet Gilbert’s, and seeing his smile, her cheeks heat even more.

He clears his throat. “You won’t disturb him, anyway. I just checked on him. Father is sleeping. He needs a lot of rest lately. This way.”

She follows him to the small kitchen.. For once, Anne doesn’t have anything to say. Mr. Blythe had a nice smile, but his wheeze and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his failing health. Anne’s heart positively ached for Mr. Blythe. And, she realized, for Gilbert, too. When he was infuriating her at school, she never thought of him caring for his ailing father and managing a house and farm alone. She chews her lip.

The thump of their combined books on the table startles her from her thoughts. He drags two chairs close to the stove.

“Please have a seat,” she sits and watches as he makes tea. Gilbert bests her at everything, even hosting tea. It’s painful to recall when she had Diana over and accidentally set her drunk, but as she had said then, there are ever so many responsibilities when one is hosting. Gilbert sets out cups, pours, and steeps with no problem.

“I trust your family is well,” he says. Anne begrudgingly appreciates that he refers to the Cuthberts as her family.

“Yes, quite well,” she answers. Then, she doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to ask if Mr. Blythe is well; she knows he isn’t.

“Thank you for bringing my lessons again.” She’s glad he doesn’t repeat what he said yesterday, that it was kind of her to stop by. It wasn’t kind at all. She did it while complaining because Mr. Phillips had insisted.  And, upon seeing Mr. Blythe’s sickly state, she herself had felt sick with guilt that she’d forced him out of bed with her incessant knocking.

“Mr. Phillips insists upon it,” she answers 

“Pardon me,” he says and exits the room. When he returns, he is no longer wearing his thick sweater or his boots, just his socks, pants, suspenders, and gray shirt. His hair is slightly mussed, and he seems embarrassed somehow when he returns.

“It’s plenty warm in here, I think,” he mumbles, “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, quite,” she replies curtly, still sore that he’s a better host than she is. And, seeing his collar unbuttoned at his throat is inexplicably interesting to her eyes. He would never let it be so at school. It’s like she’s getting a glimpse at a secret, the skin at the base of his neck. Just as this thought causes her to avert her eyes, he turns his back to her to finish with the tea.

Again, her thoughts take her somewhere unexpected. Watching his shoulders move under his suspenders she imagines him chopping wood. Certainly, her mind is only going that direction because of yesterday. That’s what Mr. Blythe said when she arrived, that Gilbert was out back chopping wood. Strangely, her brain is feeding her images of Gilbert chopping wood in the summer, no sweater, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair curling on is forehead with sweat. The fabric of his shirt clinging to his back as he lifts and swings the ax.

“Do you take sugar?” he asks over his shoulder.

Does she? She can’t remember. It’s very warm in the kitchen, Gilbert was right about that. Then he’s looking at her, the question in his dark eyes.

“Yes.” She says.

“How much?”

“Three.” 

“Three? Very sweet.”

She feels suddenly ridiculous. But he turns with two cups of tea and hands her one. She starts to take it, but realizes she still has on her mittens. Feeling even more ridiculous, she hurries to remove her mittens, only to knock into the cup and send a dollop of tea to the floor.

“Oh, no,” she drops to her knees to sop it up with the closest thing at hand, her mittens.

“I can’ get that,” Gilbert says, setting the tea down and kneeling beside her.

“No, it was my fault.”

“I’m not sure it was. I think my hands were shaking.”

She looks at him.

He swallows, “From the cold.”

This makes no sense, but she doesn’t dwell on it, trying to get the liquid off the Blythes’ kitchen floor.

“Oh, no, Anne, you’ll ruin your gloves.”

Yes, she seems to have made a fool of herself nonstop since arriving.

“But your floor is clean,” she says too brightly.

“Here,” he takes her gloves, rinses them, rings them out, and pins them up above the stove to dry.

While he does this, Anne takes the teacup with a smaller amount of tea and returns to her seat, determined to cause no more disasters as long as she’s here. That might be best done by drinking the tea in one gulp and leaving.

Gilbert joins her. He blows lightly on his tea, “I may have heated the water too much, so be careful not to scald your . . . . self.”

So much for that idea. She blows on her tea as well.

“I really should be getting home.”

“Finish your tea. You’ll have to wait for your mittens to dry anyway.”

She takes a tentative sip. And almost winces at how sweet it is. But, she’s not going to let Gilbert know that. And she’s not going to let him out-hostess her.

“Thank you ever so kindly for the fortification,” she says.

He sits up straighter, a grin on his face.

“You are most welcome, Miss Shirley,” he answers, looking delighted. Of course he looks delighted, as soon as she tried to be more polite than him, he competed in that arena as well.

“I supposed you’d like to know what Mr. Phillips covered today so you can be prepared for your lessons,” Anne tries to take the courtesy even further.

“No. I think I’ll know plenty if I just read the lessons.”

Anne nods and takes another sip of tea. Gilbert Blythe is the only person on the planet infuriating enough to render her silent. She hates him for it.

“But I would like to know who Mr. Phillips scolded today,” he shifts closer to her so his knees are almost touching her thigh, “Moody? Charlie? One of the girls?”

“Well, it wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she sniffs.

“Of course not, other than when you were provoked by highly obnoxious teasing, you’re his best student.”

Anne rolls her eyes.

“You’re his best student. That’s why he’s so insistent that I deliver these to you every day.”

“So you’ll be back tomorrow?”

“I suppose so.”

“Who got scolded today?” he asks again, his voice soft with conspiracy.

“Well, first Moody for pronouncing ‘mischievous’ wrong,” she says.

“How did it say it?”

“Miss-Chee-Vee-Us,” she says, smiling, but guiltily. Moody can’t spell, but he’s a very nice boy. Gilbert chuckles, a similar mixture of amusement and guilt on his face. 

She turns slightly toward him to continue her story, “But then, Charlie Sloane put a toad in a girl’s desk.”

“Which girl?”

“That’s the thing, he was trying to put it in Jane’s desk, but he got her neighbor instead.”

“Prissy.”

“That’s right, Prissy Andrews. And Mr. Phillips was livid! More angry than I’ve ever seen him.”

“More angry than when you . . . . ?”

Anne drops her eyes, sure he’s going to say, ‘hit me with a slate?’

“Than when you defied him and ran out of school in front of everyone?”

Anne notices that their knees are pressed up against each other as they sit close in the cramped kitchen.

“Mr. Phillips didn’t know who put the toad in at first, and he was kneeling by Prissy trying to calm her down and yelling about how these ‘wretched boys’ were scaring the wits out of a ‘lovely young lady.’”

“Was Prissy terribly upset?”

“She screamed at first, but calmed down quickly. I don’t think she needed all the fuss that Mr. Phillips was giving her.”

“Did Charlie fess up?”

“No, Billy tattled.”

“Of course he did.”

“Do you think Charlie likes Jane?”

“Of course not. He was trying to torment her by putting a toad in her desk.”

“Maybe he was just trying to get a reaction.”

“A reaction?”

“You know, to get her attention.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Gilbert shrugs. “It happens sometimes.”

“That makes no sense, Gilbert. A boy who likes you should say nice, romantical things to you and do nice things for you, not tease you.”

“Nice things like what?”

“Oh, you know, like ‘You are ever so beautiful, and it would be my honor to walk beside you, and your skin is not freckled and your hair is not red.’”

“So, he should just declare himself? What if he’s afraid she doesn’t like him back?”

“Then he’s a coward.

“What if you liked a boy?”

“What?”

“Would you say something like that to him, or would you be a coward?”

“I am never a coward.”

Gilbert smiles, and she is painfully aware of all the places where her knees are touching his. “No, Anne, I guess you’re not. But can’t you imagine that even a brave boy might have trouble declaring himself to a girl?”

“He doesn’t have to do it all at once. Especially at Charlie’s age. He can do something small.”

“Like?”

“Like give her a gift.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something small, but sweet.”

Gilbert had been looking at her, but he suddenly focuses down on his tea, “Like, maybe, an apple?”

“Ye-maybe,” Anne finishes her tea and stands. “Thank you very much for the tea and insisting that I warm up. I’ll be on my way.”

“Yes. Thank you for the books. Although, I’m not sure your mittens are dry.”

“I can go without today. I’ll pick them up tomorrow. Or, will you be at school tomorrow?”

Gilbert glances toward a shut door, probably his father’s bedroom, “No. I’ll probably miss school again tomorrow.”

“Then, I shall retrieve my mittens tomorrow when I deliver the lessons,” she scoops up her books from the table and heads for the front door.

“You can’t go without mittens for a whole day in this snow,” he stoops down by the front door to pick up some gloves that are resting beside his work boots.

She wants to protest, but that will only keep her in his house longer. She takes the gloves without a word and hurries out.

She doesn’t put the gloves on at first. But then, halfway home, her fingers feel like ice. Grunting in annoyance at accepting even more gifts from Gilbert today, she yanks them on. He probably wears these gloves around the farm. Are they even clean? Or full of his sweat from chopping wood. Her mind wanders to him swinging an ax, and she is immediately warmed for the rest of the walk home.

  
  
  



	3. Unusually Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just after the funeral of John Blythe

“You think I’m lucky?” Gilbert turns on her, forcing her to stop walking.

 _Of course not._ “Compared to me, yes,” Anne says. After all, he was born to two loving parents. And siblings. And he has a good place in life, despite having lost a father. And, he was a boy, whereas her gender almost got her sent back to the asylum from the Cuthberts.

“And why is this about you?” He growls.

“It’s not. I’m just trying to--”

“See you."

Anne watches him leave. He is all alone in life and in this moment, and she just stands there and watches him leave. No, not again.

“Gilbert!” She sounds angry. She is angry, but she didn’t mean to sound it. He doesn’t stop. She races for him again, running ahead to jog backwards in front of him.

“I’m trying to be a friend.”

He scoffs, refusing to make eye contact.

“I know I talk too much. Diana and Matthew are the only ones who don’t seem to mind. But, maybe you don’t need to talk. Maybe I should just shut my big--” She cuts herself off, realizing she is rambling again.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Gilbert moves past her. She turns with him and keeps pace, biting the inside of her cheek to keep quiet.

Just when she thinks she can’t stand the silence anymore, he tells her, “You do talk too much.”

“I already admitted as much,” the words squeal out of her.

He grabs her by the elbows, “No,” he growls. “ _Everyone_ talks too much,” With each word, he draws her closer, staring too deeply into her eyes, “Everyone wants to talk to me. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think!”

“I can surely understand that. When you’ve lost someone you love,” she stammers, unable to escape his gaze. “I sometimes long to be free from thinking. I’m _always_ thinking. That’s why my lips are so swollen--”

He finally breaks eye contact to look at her lips. Trying to hide their ugliness, she presses her mouth into a straight line, just like Marilla often does.

What was she saying? “You see I have a terrible habit of biting my lip when I think. And because I’m always -”

With a grunt of frustration, Gilbert withdraws one hand from her elbow to press it against his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Anne says, “I know I’m doing it again. I’ll stop. I’ll walk silently with you if you want.”

“I want . . . . I want . . . to feel something other than grief,” he says through gritted teeth.

Before Anne can react, he bites the tip of his glove and pulls his hand free. He slides his palm to the back of her neck, under her scarf. Anne quivers. His fingertips are cold, but his palm is warm. Her neck feels like it’s searing at his touch.

With one hand at her elbow and the other at her neck, he draws her close, guiding her arm around his waist, and leaning down to touch his forehead to hers.

His face is much too close for her eyes to focus. But she can tell his eyes are closed. The glove is still dangling from his teeth.

As much as she wants to ask him what he’s doing, she doesn’t. She feels something completely new and strange in the way he is holding her. Maybe he feels it, too. And that’s what Gilbert said he needed, to feel something.

He takes the glove from his teeth with his free hand. The barrier between their mouths is gone, and his lips are pink with cold.

Her arm is still draped loosely around his waist. This, whatever this is, feels kind of nice. So she wraps her other arm around him as well. When she does, his body sinks and softens toward her.

“Anne,” she feels his words on her lips more than she hears them with her ears. “I’m an orphan.” His eyes water.

_Me, too. But it’s not the worst thing you can be. At least you don’t have dreadful red hair._

But she says none of this, squeezing him tighter. He sinks to his knees in front of her. The fire of his hand on her neck subsides as he wraps his arms around her waist. He presses the side of his face into the front of her coat.

Anne looks down at him, seeing only sparkling snowflakes on his dark curls and  the slightest quivering of his shoulders. If she were in the depths of despair, not hard to imagine with her history, what would she want most? Recalling her first night at Green Gables when she believed she would be going back to the asylum she wonders how much more easily she would have fallen asleep if someone had stroked her hair.

She places a mittened hand on his head, testing his reaction. No change. Then, she removes her mitten to comb her bare fingers through his hair. His quivering begins to still, so she keeps stroking with trembling fingers. Her apprehension is assuaged when he murmurs, “Thank you, Anne.”

He releases her, laughing a little at himself as he stands up and brushes the snow from his knees. “I’m sorry. That was an insensitive thing to say.”

Anne isn’t sure what he is talking about; she’s just glad he doesn’t seem to be angry with her anymore. “You're thoroughly forgiven.”

“I’m not ready to go to the house.”

“I can leave if you you want to be alone,” Anne says.

“You know what would be great right now?”

“Solitude?”

He chuckles, “I wish there was someone who could ramble on and on about any topic until I’m not thinking.”

“But, you said I talk too much.”

“You do. I didn’t say I minded. Just . . . please don’t talk about--”

 _Your father. Death. Being an orphan. Anything completely tragical._ She bites her lip and instantly regrets it when she sees his eyes flit to her mouth.

“Ah, you’re thinking. Tell me, Anne, what’s running through your head,” he begins walking and she falls into step.

“Well,” she begins, “I saw the most unusually beautiful fox the other day.”

“Unusually beautiful,” he smiles for the first time in days.

“Black fur mixed in with the red. But he’s always solitary, so I can’t help but wonder . . .”


	4. You've Missed One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blowing out the Christmas tree candles

_ ANNE _

As she blows out another candle, she sees Gilbert’s face coming toward her. She jerks back. He does the same, his startled expression matching hers.

But then, he softens. The hint of a laugh flickers over his eyes and lips and throat. Her stomach flutters. She hopes she isn’t getting sick. Christmas would be an awful day to take ill. 

To escape his eyes, she dives to set Gilbert’s gift beneath the tree. When she rises again, the candle she could have sworn she just blew out was lit again. Did she blow it out? Or did she get so distracted by Gilbert’s pursed lips that she didn’t notice it still flickering?

She takes a tiny step forward and blows. Once again, Gilbert’s face is coming near. She feels his breath on her face before she has the presence of mind to retreat. He doesn’t back away. They are staring at each other, practically toe-to-toe, and he doesn’t look astonished at all. His lips are serious, but his eyes seem to hold a smirk.

“What are you doing?” She asks, unconsciously lowering her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“What are you . . .?”

“Blowing out the candles.” he whispers as if it’s obvious. But also as if it’s a secret.

“Marilla told  _ me  _ to do it.”

“You’re welcome.”

She nods and starts for the table.

“Oh, no! Anne, you’ve missed one!”

Anne turns to look, and that very same candle is lit yet again. Gilbert is standing close to it. What is he playing at?

“Go ahead,” she tells him over her shoulder.

“But I thought Miss Cuthbert asked  _ you  _ to do it,” he grins.

She rolls her eyes and drags her feet back to the tree. She stops, hands on her hips, glaring at Gilbert. Something strange is going on, but she can’t tell what it is. The smirk on his lips betrays that he’s teasing her somehow. She side-eyes him as she leans toward the candle to blow it out.

His smirk disappears, “Don’t burn yourself, Anne.”

She darts her eyes back to the candle. It’s closer than she realized. She blows, and as she does, she feels cool air on her cheek. She turns her head and her nose bumps into Gilbert’s.

“Oops,” he says, but he doesn’t move. Anne realizes she hasn’t moved either. She wants to stay something, to ask what he’s doing, but when she opens her mouth, she sees his eyes lower to her lips. This makes her feel so observed, so vulnerable. She clamps her lips shut.

Once again, a silent chuckle flickers over his features. Then she feels another cool puff of air on her lips. She has the insane urge to lean in, inhale, part her lips. But she clamps her jaw before allowing that strange impulse to overtake her.

He leans forward, and she doesn’t retreat, just closes her eyes, her whole body tense. She feels his breath on her ear this time. It’s like lightning straight down to her toes. But, he’s not blowing, he’s whispering.

“Merry Christmas, Carrots.”

 

_ GILBERT _

Gilbert sees one more candle that Anne hasn’t blown out yet. He leans for it, but suddenly Anne is leaning toward him, too, and he panics. No, she wasn’t leaning toward him, she was leaning for the candle. And her face is so surprised, so innocent, probably not at all thinking what he is -about how nice it would be to lean toward each other with no fire in the way.

She breaks eye contact quickly to set his little gift beneath the tree. He wishes she would open it now so he could see her reaction. Sighing inwardly, he puts his hands in his jacket pocket, resigned that their private interaction is over. His hand brushes something in his pocket. Matches, from earlier. He hastens to use one to relight the candle in front of him.

Then Anne is standing again, eyes confused when she sees the flickering flame. Gilbert grins to himself, not bothering to wonder why he felt compelled to recreate the moment. As she leans forward to blow it out, he does, too, getting closer to her this time.

“What are you doing?” Her voice is low, like it’s for him alone to hear and he loves it.

“What do you mean?” He loves how close she is. He could count her freckles.

“What are you . . .?”

He lies. He doesn’t even know what the truth is, but he lies. “Blowing out the candles.” 

“Marilla told  _ me  _ to do it.”

“You’re welcome.” He replies, knowing she never appreciates chivalry.

She starts for the table. And he can’t take the distance. He snatches another match from his pocket, re-lighting the same candle.

“Oh, no! Anne, you’ve missed one!”

She turns around, brows knit together in either annoyance or confusion.  _ Come on Anne,  _ he thinks, wetting his lips,  _ figure it out. _

“Go ahead,” she tells him over her shoulder.

_ Figure out that I want to be close to you. _ “But I thought Miss Cuthbert asked  _ you  _ to do it.”

She rolls her eyes, and he permits himself a grin of satisfaction as she comes back toward him. She locks her gaze on him, and he desperately needs to swallow but he can’t. Closer, closer. Her lips rounding, his own following.

But, the candle. “Anne! Don’t burn yourself.” 

She finally breaks her gaze. As her breath extinguishes the candle, he lets out his own toward her cheek.

She sways toward him.

Or, maybe he is swaying toward her. Yes, that must be it. Because now her body is rigid, and he recognizes that she’s about to bolt. So, he leans closer one last time.

“Merry Christmas, Carrots.”

  
  



End file.
